Putting Things Off
by Natasha-Von-Lecter
Summary: Set during the last scene of synchronicity, in which Tony is not really talking about hang gliding. Tony/Carol. This is another short one-off. I hope to write a more involved, darker, longer story soon.


"I'm tired of putting things off. Come with me." He looks so resolute, so determined. She's seen that look on his face during dozens of investigations, through countless arguments over suspects, and even when she's watched him work on the crime scene. But never in a personal setting. Never over chips, or tea, or wine. This time, it's different. And so she gets into the car and pulls out onto the road.

"We're not going hang gliding though, are we?" She asks.

"No. We're going to your flat."

She arches her eyebrow at him, eyeing him obliquely, while she still monitors the road.

"Really? And then?"

"You're going to wash up and change into something nice."

She can't help but chuckle at his cheek.

"I am?"

"Yes you are. And then we're going back to my flat. I'm going to put on a suit."

She rolls to a stop as traffic halts her progress, but she doesn't mind. It gives her the opportunity to look at him. He meets her eyes, still resolute, but she knows he's scared. He's covering it well, and he looks every inch the determined male, but he has never been really comfortable reaching out to anyone on an intimate level. He's letting his mask slip. She's never seen him so vulnerable.

"And when you're all kitted out in your suit, what then?

"We're going on a date."

And she can't help it; she laughs. Partly, because she's so relieved that he's alive, and that he's back, and that he's still her Tony. Partly, because he's the most wonderfully ridiculous man she's ever met.

"For God's sake, Tony, you've just had your skull cracked open, and you're missing half your hair. We're not going on a date!"

If he is crestfallen, and she suspects he is, he hides it well. But he needn't worry, this ridiculous man of hers.

"Well then, where are you taking me, DI Jordan?"

"Back to your flat."

"Oh."

Now he is disappointed, and there's no mistaking it. He fears his gamble has not paid off. He's laid himself open to her, with as much boldness as he could muster, and she's laughed at him. Dismissed him. She reaches her hand across and lays it on his leg. He flinches away slightly. He wants so many things from her, but pity is not one of them. She gives his thigh an affectionate squeeze, clears her throat, and continues:

"At your flat, you will round up whatever manly accoutrements you require, your favorite pair of pajamas, and some of your nicer reds. THEN we'll go to my flat where I will install you in my guest bed, feed you hot chicken soup, and take very good care of you for the next couple of weeks."

He smiles softly, a half smile. He might not have gotten what he wanted, but he is reassured that they are still friends. It's not enough, not nearly enough anymore, but it is still the most precious thing in the world to him.

They pull to a stop in front of his flat and with downcast eyes he moves to leave the vehicle. He stops when she exerts pressure on his thigh, surprised at the realization that her hand has remained there so long. His breath hitches in his throat as she leans across and kisses him softly on the mouth. It's a gentle kiss, a bit tentative, but far from awkward. When it's over, she smiles at the flush painting his cheeks. For the first time in ages, he looks happy.

"And when your hair's grown back, we can go out on that date. Now go and get your things, and be quick about it."

This time there is a spring in his step. And while she doesn't see the wisdom in him bounding up the stairs so vigorously only hours after a major operation, she can't begrudge him anything. She's so glad he's alive she would have taken him bloody hang gliding if he insisted. But she knows he'll be much happier just sitting on the couch and chatting. Sipping wine, and building up his strength.

She knows that in two weeks they'll get dressed in their nicest clothes, and spend far too much on a decadent French dinner. The date will not be strictly necessary, but it will be a helpful demarkation. It will mark the last time they break bread as merely colleagues or friends. That night they will retire to her flat. They will make love, and they will sleep beside each other. And when they wake, the world be changed less than they expected, but in wonderful ways. They will complete and compliment each other as perfectly as two pieces of a puzzle. He will never again feel as if he is pretending to be human, and she will never again question her worth. And while they will never go hang gliding, they will never again feel the quiet emptiness of putting things off.


End file.
